


My Body Is the Canvas Of My Failures

by Wolves_of_Innistrad



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Future, Druid!Stiles, Ficlet, Futurefic, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Spark!Stiles, implied sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolves_of_Innistrad/pseuds/Wolves_of_Innistrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three scenes in Stiles life, contrasted through the markings on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Body Is the Canvas Of My Failures

          The luminous morning sun wakes him, shimmering through the curtains.  The bed creaks, light and cheery, as Stiles shifts, standing up.  He crosses to the bathroom, bare feet padding across plush carpeting.  The click of the door reveals his bathroom, pristine and sanitary.  As he moves towards the shower, his eyes alight on his bare skin, the marking on his arm, a replica of his best friend’s.  A smile, wide and beaming, lights his face as he gently strokes it.  He remembers the day he got it, what it means, what he is, what he’s a part of.  He grins as he turns away.

          The bright morning sun wakes him, drifting through the curtains.  The bed creaks, high and rustic, as Stiles shifts, standing up.  He crosses to the bathroom, bare feet scuffing across hard wood.  The click of the door reveals their bathroom, messy and disheveled, cluttered beyond belief.  As he moves towards the shower, his eyes alight on his bare skin, the marking between his shoulder blades, a replica of his lover’s.  A smile, genuine and sunny, lights his face as he absently rubs it.  He remembers the day he got it, what it means, what he is, what he’s a part of.  He smirks as he turns away.

          The harsh morning sun wakes him, seeping through the rotted curtains.  The bed creaks, loud and unbearable, as Stiles shifts, standing up.  He crosses to the bathroom, bare feet trudging over patchwork threads.  The click of the door reveals the bathroom, disgusting and squallid.  As he moves towards the shower, his eyes alight on his bare skin, the markings covering his body, some hiding scars, others verging on overlapping.  A smile, wistful and melancholic, lights his face as he anxiously picks at them.  He remembers the day he got each one, what they meant, what he was, what he was a part of.  He grimaces as he turns away.

          They had called him the spark; the one to light the fuse.  Derek never liked that title, it reminded him of ash and soot and flames.  To Stiles, it didn’t matter; he was special, wanted, valuable.  Soon the name began to change, a mocking epitaph at first, the misnomer to end them all.  Eventually it was spoken in hushed tones, the unmistakable whine of weary wolves.  He was never the spark.  Not the match, the flint, the light.  He was the darkness; the queller of the flame, the loss of oxygen.   He had been the alpha and the omega, the true omega.  Restless wanderer seeking solace in a world he no longer belonged too, in.  


End file.
